A Sweet Thesis
by theshadowswhisper
Summary: Wendy thinks she may have the perfect thesis for her research essay.  The problem? It requires the study of a rather uncooperative Eric Cartman. Candy


**Silly, unedited, birthday fic for my bestie, kyleisgod. He's always got bandaids for my broken hearts, laughter when I'm low, and is the bestest buddy a girl could ever have.**

**Candy, because you got me addicted to it and it started our friendship.**

**Happy birthday, kyleisgod! **

Cartman wasn't the romantic type.

No, he had come to the rather firm belief that girls were hellbitten nuisances with evil breasts of doom that somehow got them free favors. He himself had to coerce or threaten cooperation for the most part. So he was probably just jealous. His own boobs held no powers of persuasion. He was understandably bitter.

At any rate, Eric Cartman had lived for 19 years abiding by the philosophy of general contempt for females. He was going to head off in the fall to Princeton University, a confirmed and satisfied bachelor, spouting to whoever would hear it that "bitches didn't have nothing" on him.

Wendy Testaburger, however, had another theory. She'd graduated a year early, and had finished a term at community college by the time her peers had finished with high school. Preparing to major in women's history, Wendy had plenty of experience dissecting the male perspective. What she'd discovered in the worst of misogynists was an overwhelming _fear _of women. It was this particular phenomenon that lead her to studying the behavior of Eris Cartman.

It had started with a cup of coffee. He had been in front of her in the line at Harbucks (corporation or not, Wendy believed in quality when it came to her precious caffeine).

Bebe, (who, like totally got the job as a barista because the manager was a creepy pervert, and she'd worn a low shirt on the day of her interview), was trying to take Eric's order. Bebe tended to get grumpy when she was having trouble with split ends or hangnails, and it must have been one of those days. When Eric had snapped, "Double chocolate grande cappuccino, bitch, and make it snappy!" she'd replied, "How about a new personality and some Slim Fast instead?"

"Slut! Get your chest out of my face and make me some goddamn coffee!" Bebe, of course, wasn't going to tolerate being spoken to this way. She'd made a remark about his mother as a retort, which made Eric's face turn so red that Wendy had pulled out her cellphone to call 911, just in case. That much blood rushing to the head couldn't mean anything good.

Then had begun a rather loud and ostentatious argument, which ended up with Eric doused in caramel syrup, and Bebe calling security. Wendy had been late to class, and worse, had had to leave without her coffee. It would have been the start of a rather terrible day, had she not gotten one of her more brilliant ideas.

The theory of fear being the cause of anti-feminine behavior was not a new one, but a case-basis study of extremism in an individual would certainly give her a leg up on her college application essay. The opportunities to study the psychology alone were considerable.

Eric Cartman, however, had been less than cooperative.

"Eric," Wendy had caught up with him as he'd stormed out of Harbucks, "hey, what's up?"

"Fuck off, dyke."

"Want to meet up after school?" Wendy was not one to dance around the point.

"Yes. And afterward we can attend a fucking ballet and watch Gilbert and Sullivan. I said fuck off."

"I'll buy you dinner," Wendy figured bribery and food would ply him a bit.

Eric had given her a considering look, and she'd really thought that would be it. That she'd closed the deal. She hadn't reckoned on Eric's disbelief in a free dinner.

"I heard you're in college now," Eric's friendly smile should have tipped her off, but Wendy was already basking in her premature feelings of victory.

"Yep, and I thought that over dinner, we could discuss—"

"So don't they have some kind of class on 'shut the hell up and leave me alone' there?" he turned to face her, his still-friendly smile did not match his eyes leaping with contempt, "'cause I bet you're failing it. You don't seem to grasp the concept."

"Eric, I just—"

"Let me give you a tip, no charge," he placed heavy hand on her shoulder and met her eye, dead on, "when someone says "fuck off" it means go the fuck away."

And with that he made his escape.

Wendy followed him around that whole next week. Among other things, she'd learned that Eric Cartman had only one female relationship that did not involve outward hatred for the female. And that was with his mother.

She also learned that some things really did make Eric upset. She learned to be able to tell by his hands. Balled into fists whenever he had a confrontation, when someone said something that really got to him, he'd unclench them for just a moment, before clenching them even tighter, yelling louder.

She learned Eric dearly missed Mr. Kitty. At the South Park Shopping Center, he'd spent an hour surreptitiously watching tiny gray kitten in a pet store, before leaving without it.

And Wendy learned that Eric sang. Constantly. Usually popular radio station hits, but when he became scared or nervous, he tended towards oldies, like Fleetwood Mac, or The Doobie Brothers, maybe the Beach Boys. When he was particularly happy, it tended towards Britney Spears or Lady Gaga. At his most peaceful, it was generally the Cheesy Poof theme song, or "Kyle's Mom's a Bitch." But always, he sung. Slightly off key, quietly to himself, shamelessly loudly, Eric's mood was transparent in his musical choices.

She hadn't made much headway on her thesis, despite all this information however. It was terribly frustrating.

It was just that…Eric didn't actually interact much with girls. He seemed to avoid them, just as they avoided him.

She couldn't help thinking he must be rather lonely.

Wendy had had enough by the end of the week. She gathered her information, and placed a phone call to the Cartman residence, ready to demand once and for all that Eric allow her to interview him and subject him to social experiments for the sake of her essay. She wanted results goddamnit!

Oh great…now she was starting to talk like him. She groaned as she dialed; the things she did to assure her future!

"Sup, dawg. S'Cartman."

"Hi, this is Wendy Testa-"

"I'm sorry. I don't negotiate with insane stalkers."

"I'm not a stalker!"

"What else do you call someone who follows you around everywhere?"

"It's for a research paper! I need to study an example of anti-feminism—"

"Yeah yeah, okay. I don't see how stalking me will help you write your paper about your period."

"It's about anti-feminism! And you're—"

"Bored already. God, do all you hippies get off to this crap? Fucking losers. No wonder your sluts have to give your love away for free; who'd pay for your pseudo-intellectual, nature-fetish stuff?…What's it gonna take to make you leave me alone?"

"Just one interview, and a few set ups that—"

"What's in it for me?"

"Getting to be part of a worthwhile endeavor of knowledge?"

"Nice try. I don't give a shit about knowledge and all that crap. How about cash?"

"That would be unethical!"

"Oh, kiss my ass. Fucking hippies."

"Can I ask you one question at least?"

"You just did. Heh heh heh."

"Eric! Come on, just one question."

"Alright, alright. What is it?"

"Why are you so afraid of women?"

"WHAT! Ho, I'm not afraid of any woman! I just tell them to get their asses back in the kitchen to make me linguini or something. 'Cause that's all they're good for. Cleaning and cooking and…stuff! No bitch is ever gonna tell ME what to do!"

"…Me thinketh he doth protest too much."

"Who are you now, Scott Malkinson? Talking in a stupid lisp?"

"It's Shakespeare!"

"Is that some kind of mayonnaise?"

"It's classical literature!"

"Then it's outdated and irrelevant, ho. Come up with some new material."

"Whatever!"

"Whatevah!"

"God! You're such an ASSHOLE! This is exactly why girls avoid you! You're insufferable!"

"Bitches love me! I'm just picky."

"HAH! No girl would touch you with a ten-foot-pole."

"No, but they're all over my ten-foot-pole! Heh heh heh!"

"You think you're so clever. You're just insecure because no girl will even talk to you. Maybe if you were less of a prick, females would—"

"Stalk me? Like you are?"

"I'M NOT STALKING YOU!"

"Goddamnit, Wendy, if you were so desperate for a date, you could have just asked. I don't want to be seen with a hippie, though, so I guess you're out of luck."

"Ew! As if! You're the last person on EARTH I'd want to go on a date with!"

"Oh, looks like someone doesn't handle rejection very maturely."

"FUCK you, Cartman! I could do so much better than you! Anyone would be better than you!"

"Calm down, ho. Tell you what. If you promise not to try to sell me weed or quote John Lennon songs at dinner, and you wear a bra, god you hippies are disgusting… you can buy me a pizza thus Thursday."

"I don't sell OR smoke weed! And don't you DARE talk about my undergarments or I swear to god, I'll break your nose in! Fuck you, Cartman!"

"Not on the first date, jeez, ho. So I'll see you at seven at Shakey's then? Thursday?"

"What? I didn't agree to—"

"Great! Gotta go. Superbowl's on and I wanna see the new Cheesy Poof commercials. Don't forget, you're paying. Bring your wallet, you freeloading skank. Night!"

And it was only because Wendy wanted to study him that she showed up that Thursday a Shakeys.

And it was only because he'd teared up when she mentioned the kitten that she'd left off interrogating him and just tried to make him laugh. And only because he appreciated her sense of humor so much that she'd let him wipe pizza sauce of the corner of her mouth without shuddering away from his touch.

And it was only because she severely loved the song when she'd joined him in singing "Any Way You Want It" in the parking lot.

But as to how they ended up making out in his car till the windows steamed up….she had no good answer.

What she did understand, however, was that Eric Cartman was afraid of rejection, not of women. It was all he'd ever known, and Wendy was well versed by now on what exactly got to him. Rejection, as it happened, really got to him.

Good thing Wendy Testaburger never rejected a good thesis.


End file.
